


Cursed Hearts

by cookiedoughfriend



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, OC, Preacher!Frank, Preacher!Patrick, Puritans, Sins, Virgin Frank Iero, Warlock!Gerard, Warlocks, Witch Curses, Witchcraft, church
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-04-29 16:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14476197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cookiedoughfriend/pseuds/cookiedoughfriend
Summary: Frank is an innocent preacher in his village, however he does not fit the standard male puritan. One day the Reverend sends to a home, where a Warlock lives deep within the woods.When things begin to go wrong in his heart, it makes him believe he indeed cursed by the Warlock.But he is not the only one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, It has been a while since I done a frerard fic. So this is based off the popular belief around the 17th century that old women and men would perform witchcraft. They were feared by many and burned by the stake. 
> 
> So why not I made a story short about a preacher and a wizard! :)

 

   

Oh, how Franklin dreaded all ready to enter the woods and he had not even stepped foot into it. Thankful, it was not a dark hour of the night when the woods would appear frightening and sinister. It was only afternoon when the sky was clear of any clouds and the sun was high above it. He was slightly petrified of the woods, but he had no choice to do what was told of him.

Franklin was not a hunter, planning to slaughter innocent animals to consume and give to the fellow townsfolks. He was a preacher, only trained to reinforce the faith and the word of God of his fellow villagers. He was still wearing his Sabbath day garments due to him being sent after the sermon. Today, he did not speak in front of the villagers, instead his teacher; Reverend Thorns had given a terrifying preaching about the wrath of God, denounced all those who do not have a God or believe in false gods. Every time Franklin would listen to these teachings; it would always give chills down his nape under his curly brown locks. Instead, he tries forgetting that as his golden apple eyes scan the woodland path that has been made by people long before him. 

Stepping through the path, he cannot deny that the forest was pretty in green leaves of spring emerged from the tree and blades of grass sprouting underneath them. However, the thickness of the quilt of leaves atop of the dark barks of the trees made the woods eerie. Franklin wanted to turn back and tell the Reverend that the deed was accomplished. Yet, he then mental shamed himself for putting such an idea of lying, which was a sin, in his head and continue to troll the crooked dirt pathway. 

After a few minutes of walking down the path, he could witness a clearing with a dark low timber fence. A small cabin in the middle of the clearing with the rays from sun shower upon it. It is not in the greatest of conditions, but it is not ghastly. It was built of thick logs planted on top of each other, leading the hay covering as a roof, along with an iron cylinder chimney with small clouds of black smoke flying out. Frank walked up to the fence to get a closer to at the isolated property, placing his olive-toned hands lightly on the rough surface.

He could see beautiful garden patches full of flowers and vivid greens sprouted from the dirt. He was in awe and wanted to take a beautiful flower. They were all around the fence and the cabin expects for the entrance, in which Frank just followed with his hand brushing the wood until where the garden and barrier stopped for a moment, where a gateway presented itself. Little stones stuck out of the dirt that would lead to the porch steps that line with the front door. He took slow treads over them yet still trying to name all the plants in the garden. When he stepped on the porch, the panels generated squeaky noises with each step he took, which gave feared a little that he was going to fall through the floorboards before he could ever get to the door. Yet, he has made it and he was staring at the door, which had a sign with painted letters that say 'Go Away'. He about the knocks, but his overflowing thoughts made him stop in the mist of it.

He about to knock the door of the warlock, Mr. Way. People say that when they see him, they say he is hideous as his soul. Sometimes, he comes into town, but for some reason, Frank had never witnessed him at any time, just heard the rumors and gossip in the village. They say he is very old and rather obese with rags for clothes. Evil symbols in the clothes and belongings he carries. They say he is a man of the devil since he has never entered the church house or attend sermons of the Sabbath day. He lives alone in the woods to practice black magic, like witches of other towns. Thankful, he had not murdered anyone in the village yet, but they bother him that causes his smart retorts of threats to slip out his dark mind and released from his mouth in an ugly voice, laced with an anger and sour tone. This started the belief in his creation of deadly poisons and gruesome curses in his own home, so no normal villager would allow themselves or their children to ever enter the forest this far enough. Only the hunters and they don't even go this far. 

Nonetheless, Franklin was here and his fear of lying and the warlock cursing him were straining the nerves in his head. Yet, lying is a sin, so he hesitantly knocks with his knuckles. However, no noises or words spoken from the inside, so he rapped again. 

"Did you not read the sign?" A man's voice ran through. "Go away!" Frank did not say anything, but his curiosity began to grow because he expected the man's voice to be rough and deep, but it was a little higher pitch. Therefore, he rapped again. 

"Thorns, I'm not going to come to church and you very well know that!" Anew, he tapped the door. He wanted to distinguish the man in the flesh. A groan could be heard, followed by a dropping of metal on the floor, causing another grumble. Frank could then hear the footsteps of the older man stomping to the door, so he took a few steps back. It was until he opens the door, Frank's eyes widen.

All the rumor images from his head were thrown out as he stared at him. He appeared not old, but he was not young looking either. Frank thought he was not as old as Reverend Thorns, who appeared twice his age compared the warlock. He was not obese, but he was not thin either. His body wrapping in a green robe that went to his knees and leather boots to cover the rest of his legs. His face is framed his by his messy dark brown hair with only a few strands of gray in his roots. Facial hair of the same color rests over his mouth and some leading under his rounded chin. Pale skin on his face was not full of wrinkles except for little ones under his eyes and on his forehead. His golden orbs were angry, but seeing the younger loosen his gaze. Frank could see his eyes on his chest for a moment where his rosary lie around his nape. 

"Well looks like Thorns made his little student accomplish his dirty work." The older muttered leaning against the door. "Let me guess; he wants me to go to church to clear my sins or be tried for my witchcraft?" He lazily explained. 

Frank slowly nodded because it was all the truth. 

"I might as well hark to it a thousand times for the amount times I have heard this." He pronounced sardonically. "Unless he follows through, I shall never go. Now go!" The man responded before stepping back in with his hand on the door to close. However, Franklin's curiosity got the better of him, for he had a question.

"Wait!" The younger yelped. This made the warlock stop his hand from closing the door. "Do you not wish to clean your sins?"

"Everyone sins. Even you." The warlock's finger towards the younger. "The heavens still knows that, even after you pass, no matter what. No one can clear them." Frank was taken back by his opinion. No one has said that before in the village. To clear one's sin required the help of the church. 

"Do you not see the sign?' Mr. Way repeated, aiming a long pale finger towards the front of the door.

"But I have a question," Frank mumbled in a little shy tone.

The older man sigh. "What your name?"

"Franklin Iero, sir." He mumbled.

"So, Frank, what is your question?" 

Frank hesitated for a moment because he did not want to say something that will trigger the man to do something wicked. "Is it true that you place curses on one's soul?"

The reaction that Frank hoped for disappeared by the older man's smug smile. "I may, you never know." He remarked softly with a small chuckle, glancing at the forest for a moment before meeting his preacher's terrified orbs. 

"So I would leave now if I was you," The old man said, backing into his house anew and holding the door. "Or you just might be jinxed." He slams the door with a rather loud noise and behind it a loud laugh. 

Frank scurried away quickly, just as the elder told him to. He did not realize how far he has gotten before turning around and not recognizing the cabin or the clearing of sunrays anymore, now hidden within the deep wilderness. He could see another clearing ahead of himself, which was the one that he knew the most, his village.

Unlike the warlock's home, familiar structures of the villagers were cleaner buildings. The flat timber planks were cut to build homes with hay triangle rooftops and brick chimneys towering over them. Dirt roads carved out by many who walk by feet and horses, in which there were not at this time, because of the Sabbath day is the day of rest. He was just overjoyed that he was home in his small colony town, and he would have to go to the church. 

Soon enough he reached the church house. A building painted in white with black tiles laying on its roof. On the top of a large in the front of the church, there is a grand bronze bell hung by ropes on its handle. Throughout the day and the night, the church bell rings each hour, flying back and forth to make a loud chime ring through the village. On the very top, was the cross, shining the gold paint with the help of the stars of both times. He went to open the massive black double doors, surrounded by classical architect of small columns next to them. 

When he did, he opens it to see the browns of aisles of the pew section that head towards the altar, in which as was bare. However, around it were candles and flowers, possibly brought by the people. On the wall near the altar, two doorways lead to many back rooms. Speaking of which, the two people walked through them as they chatted. Frank recognized them as the Reverend and his friend and fellow preacher, Patrick. 

Dressing in dark robes and a wooden cane in his aging hand, the Reverend's deep brown eyes recognized Frank standing at the end of the pew sections. His wrinkles on his face lifted as he grinned his old grotesque smile before he spoke. "Ah, there is Franklin." His voice sounded rough and scratchy coming from his dry white lips. Patrick had not noticed Franklin coming through the door, so he turned his head when the elder uttered it. 

"What news did you bring, my son?" He questioned, as he slowly walked over there. He had a small limp in a few steps, in which Frank knows that in thin left foot under his robe. 

"Apologizes, sir, but I must say, that he still shall never attend." He said with his hand behind his back. This made the Reverend frown.

"I try so hard not to execute this madman!" He yelled out. "This all he told you?" The Reverend asked to obtain more information, looking straight into Franklin's eyes fiery. Frank tries to stay calm as his hands were shaking, but no could see. For some strange reason, he did not want to rat out the warlock. This time the fear of the warlock would surely win and his lips promoted it. 

"Yes." He lied. 

"Very well," The Reverend mumbled, softened his glare. "I shall deal with that later. I am rather weary. But thank you, Franklin." He uttered, as he strolled to the door.

"Now you boys should head home, I shall accompany you Tuesday." The Reverend croaked out, before leaving through the doorway. 

Frank stared as he leaves until he was out of sight, and he turned around to see Patrick gawking questionably at him with his big blue eyes under his glass frames. "What is it, friend?" H asked kindly.

"Oh, it's nothing important," The blond mumbled in his compassionate voice, but his eyes cast left a little. 

"Patrick..." Frank muttered lowly. 

"You look rather warm, and I know not due to the weather," Patrick confessed. "What really happened?"

Frank took a glance at the altar for a moment. Standing tall with the infamous crosses carved out in the middle was haunting him. "May we speak somewhere else?" He did not want to speak in the house of God about this. 

"Sure, how about my home?" Patrick suggested in which Frank agree to. Thus, they were on their merry way. 

-

"So tell me what happened?" Patrick asked while they were seated at the dining table with a porcelain cup of tea in front of each of them. Frank like his home because of calming effect. Patrick lives with his wife and baby, so it was always clean and the garden was charming as he can behold it from the open window next to the ginger's chair on the other side of the table. And since Patrick is not a hunter, he likes to help his wife, unlike most men in the village. "First, tell me how he lives?" 

Frank had taken a small sip of tea before he swallowed and answers. "His house is not greatly built, but he possibly built it himself." He replied to question. "But, Patrick his garden was absolutely lovely. There were even flowers I could not name myself."

"You always were one for flowers, Frank." Frank was a little flatter by the statement. So many people teasing him for his endearment for flowers.

"Speak for yourself, you potato." He remarked. 

Patrick huffed at him, making a pouting face. "Anyway, what does he look like? Is it true he is really old?"

Frank shook his head. "Absolutely not, he looks younger, younger than Thorns." He thought back to his face, especially the smirk. "He looks rather handsome, to be honest." 

"Really? No head full of white? No long beard? Not really heavy? No rags for clothes?" Each time his friend asked, Frank would shake his head as no. The latter was quite surprised by this.

"What did he tell you then?"

"Patrick, oh my." Frank thought back for a moment, cover his face with his hands. "He knew why I was there. He does not what to clear his sins."

"Why not?"

"He said that Heaven can not forget sins, even after we die. He believes we can't clear our sins." Frank bit his bottom lip with his front teeth lightly.

"Oh?" Patrick thought for a moment on what his friend said while sipping the last of his tea. "Is this all he assured you?"

Frank shook his head. "I have to ask if the rumors were true. He did not give me a simplistic answer, only that I could be accursed."

"So, I figure he is a very angered man that is not old and can possibly jinx anyone?" The blond summed up, in which Frank nodded. "Then, I think you do not have to worry about him if you do not bother him. What are you arranging to do tomorrow?" The latter changes the subject.

"Oh, I am going to Jamia's," Frank mumbled before taking the last sip of his tea.

"Does not she say she desired distance?"

"Maybe all we require is to communicate more," Frank explained. Jamia has been quite distance lately and Frank was a little bother by it because he loves her. In fact, he was the first to declare it, but she hesitated the first time. Moreover, it was weird that her conversions have developed more on marriage and having many babies, just as all children were told to when they became young adults. Frank was thirty and people also tease him for not considering children early. However, he is shy when it came to relationships and scared to take the role of a typical man. In addition, Jamia was surely not making it any better with the conversion. 

"Very well," Patrick mumbled. "Do you wish to stay for supper?" 

"No thank you," Frank declined, getting p from his chair. "I am rather weary and wish to head home." He heads for the door and opened it.

"Alright, best wishes to you than Frank," Patrick called out to him, but then heard crying of his son and ran out the room. Frank let himself out. 

Frank would return home and eat a little before he would go a write his poems. He not ever wants to share this secret passion because people would never be kind. He writes about anything that will pop into his head, and most of the best poems in his small notebook were on days were he felt sad or the unusual happens. However, when reading them over, he criticizes that he sounds like a simple woman instead a normal tough male that everyone wants him to be.

But what is so fun about being normal?


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys Don't Cry - The Cure (also I recommend The Stigma (boys don't cry) by As It Is, which came out a few days ago, but The Cure is more fitting)

If you to gaze upon Franklin, at the current moment, you would either feel pity or irritation.

Birds still chirp soundly in trees in the distance, and animals continue to seek their meals in throughout the forest, not regarding the broken sobs of a desolate man. Weeps and whimpers slipped pass his quivering lips like an off-tune instrument as he gasps for air. Here, from the extended woods, he is aware that no person could hark his forlorn sounds of pain. Even if there were people around, he would've not halt. That why he had ran to the ominous forest before his glassy tear-threatening eyes and trembling facial expression would be displayed in front of many villagers. A heart already aching would increase if many of those gapes of children that looked up to him, and those of the adult that teased their respected preacher, gazing upon him with freezing judgemental stares much like eagles' eyes while circling their cowering prey. 

Presently, he sat in front of an old tree, his lower back pressed the dirty bark as he sat between two roots peek out of the ground. The tree is planted in front of a quiet stream that bubbled as it runs through rocks. His legs in a three-sided shape that had his knees up towards the green leaves on branches above his head. His elbows sit on his thighs due to his hands blanketing most of his vision that blocked out the light of day. The bottoms of his palms are placed on his cheeks, which also catch the bitter drops that mark a flustered pink shade upon his olive skin. His greens irises along with the redness of the whites made these slip out, causing a few droplets to tangle within his eyelashes.

He yearns for the tumbling of tears to cease so he can go back to his quiet garden behind his cottage full of colorful flowers shared with fluttering wings of butterflies and buzzing honeybees. A small oasis in his backyard he usually sat and just be in deep thought, but also in deep space that takes his attention each time he was there. He would pay no regard to people who strolled by with questioning glares as they wonder where is he mentally. However, the combination of vivid shades and fragrant smell would just remind him of his sickening agony.

A shining morning twas, as only the sun contracting with the atmosphere's light blue with no disrupting puffs of clouds. Franklin had awoken with a grand sensation in his chest that he quickly ate his breakfast of oats and gotten dressed in more normal clothing rather his priesthood uniform. He went out into the garden, that greeted him with blooming petals painted in the colors of an evocative rainbow. He sprinkled water upon them with a watering tin, a routine that he enjoys waking up to, which made the plant's blossoms and leaves glisten in the early morning spring sun.

When he finished, he careful plucked the stems of several Chrysanthemums, for Jamia, of course. The reds and yellows signified for his emerging feelings within his chest and stomach that he felt when he was around her. The whites meant for his undying trust and faith in her. He presumed, which was more of a hoping feeling, that she will adore them as much as he does.

As he walked the path through the village, he sported a smile, despite his uneasy nerves throughout his being. A day that started the beginning of the week was consistently a busy one, with many at work in their small shops and businesses. Children during this time were either studying their books or assisting their parents in their work. As Franklin passes by, many people say quick salutations in his favor, which would return with swift gratitude of a smile and wave. Despite being a bit strange in the standards of the village, they brush it off due to him being a devoted follower to the lord.

Subsequently, he sees the Nestor residence which was on the other side of the village, pass the center. A relatively more immense house than Frank's due to Jamia stills lives with her parents and brother. He shadowed the lump that formed in his throat and trudged a little quicker to the door.

Before he knocked on the door, he had fixed his curls and parted his bang to reveal a patch of his forehead that shined like a quartz in the presence of the warm sunlight, until he felt somewhat satisfied. He gathered a deep breath, then tapping the wood door twice with his knuckles.

No response.

He rapped again, including another tap than the last. He just stood there forbearingly as he was taught as a child, as many people ought to be in attendance. However, he caught himself heedlessly tapping his feet in an unknown beat that cause dusting of dirty to land on his shoes that accomplished them to be more filthy contrary to the lustrous leather of last night when cleaned them.

He was acquainted that standing in front of someone's cottage was ghoulish, especially when the residences are gone. Yet, he has been certain Jamia is usually home performing her chores at this hour while her parents and brother were out. He was well aware that he could have left for another time as he knocked again, but he needs to place the flowers somewhere before they wilt in the heat without the moisture of water.

On that occasion, he decided he would place the flowers in the barrel in her backyard, where Jamia would discover them when she would go collect water. He places the upward curl of his lips again and began walking to the side of her house.

However, this was the side where Jamia's bedroom stood next to the confined space beside another cottage. Frank could not help but stop in his track before her room and began to wonder if he should glaze into it. His mind battles whether to respect her privacy or not. Even so, the battle could not help itself, because he heeded muffled whispering voices that made him peek into the window.

Jamia was standing there in the middle of the room, with her long smoky gown with a white apron tied around her waist, only leaving her pale hands to be uncovered. However, what Frank noticed was that she was clutching the shoulders of another man he never saw before today. A man considerably taller than he was and exceedingly more built. Frank just wanted to believe that they were friends because he heard her lightly giggle at him. Yet, glazes of intimacy were exchanged after she stopped. Soon enough, his hands were placed around her waist and she gains a hold lightly on his neck before lips were pressed together.

At that moment, the sensation of delicate glass shattering was what Frank could feel in his chest. The damage to the human heart is one of the most burning sensation known to man, engendering the feeling of realizing that it's broken and causing the victim to be fragmented. It's fuel, that has given the receiver as a form of rapturous sentiment before, has becomes a poison as quick as serpent's bite as it releases venom into the pierced victim's body by surprise. Waves of melancholy take over the bloodstream as the shattered but rapid beating heart continues to pump through the body, running through as it quickly takes over find its direction to the brain of the victim. The mind from there controls what the vessel shall do, but the waves make the controls foggy along with some rather impulsive decisions in the eyes of others from a drug that has made it numb for an uncountable amount of time that would feel endless with each passing moment. 

Frank gripped the rough fabric of his shirt tightly with his liberal hand, where it laid on his chest, as bites his bottom lip to not make any noises. He dropped the flowers on the ground and covered his mouth instead. Glassy hazels stare at the blossoms as he kneels on the dirt ground but his mind reminds himself of that shameless kiss. He decided to barge into the forest, with his eyes that began to run also, leaving the erroneous flowers on the dirt.

That why he is here, with a lonely, cracked heart asking his god why it has to be like this silently in his head. He was not enraged at Him, rather merely wanted answers because he was frightened. Was this really what He planned for him? Had he had enough pain in his lifetime? The torture of suffering of teasing that he endears behind his back. The discomfort of loneliness that he faces in his own home. The pain of his parents that died not long ago.

As he still faintly whimpers and tears are slowing, he apprehends stomps of feet. In his head, they do not sound clear, so at first, he assumes that it is just an animal. However, he overhears it coming closer until he stopped hearing the trudging feet near him. Hesitantly, he slipped his hand down to cover his flushed cheeks, revealing his glassy orbs, that threaten more droplet at the waterline, to gaze upon the person.

The man was clocked in a large black hood that concealed his face, that petrified Frank, making him wrap his arms around his torso and caused heavy breathing after a sharp gasp. He looked down to see bags of what appear to food, maintaining his hands occupied.

"Why you all alone?" Asked the figure, that Frank swore he knew that voice from somewhere but could not recall where.

"It's nothing," Frank replied in a slightly cracked voice from his sobbing as he looked back at the ground.

"Clearly," The voice muttered. "It's not like you appear to be drowning in your tears."

"Sir," Frank began to speak more audibly as he wipes his eyes. "Who are you?"

The man sighs and places his bags down gently on the glass. He then reaches his for the ends of his hood, thrusting it down. This made Frank breeze a little better, now that he knew it was only Mr. Way. Of course, he appeared a little terrifying justified to the inky fabric of his enormous coat and his penetrating dark eyes due to no shining lights or gleaming joy within in them. Frank could not tell what his stare could mean as they were focused on his flustered state, nonetheless, he knew it was anything but content.

"Now, what are you weeping on about?" He asked in a stale tongue that could match his gaze.

Franklin shook his head before responding gently. "It has none of your concern, so you should merely continue on your path."

The elder hummed at this with his bushy eyebrow risen. "However, conceivably it is more suitable to talk about rather than bottle it up."

Frank sighed, looking anywhere but the wicked man, and placing his arms on his knees and rested his head on top of it. "Do not desire that. I wish to be alone with my pathetic cries." He sniffed.

"Well then," The warlock began to mutter. "Broken hearts are the complicated complex of the mind." Frank was bewildered that he knew.

"H-How," He started with a slight stutter and lifts his head to meet his dark orbs. "How do you know?"

"Well, I received my share of them, whether that be of death or love and hence has every man in their lifetime." The elder spoke. "Of course, various men heal differently. So do not view your tears as unsatisfactory, no matter who says they are." Frank did not speak any words, just watched as the warlock gather his belongings. The warlock barely gave him a simple nod and began to trot away, deeper into the woods until Franklin's vision saw his figure disappear.

Frank felt a little pleased by the mystery man's compassionate words that just awed him. I just thought that he would express great aggravation, yet his words sound kind, but his face still did not demonstrate little emotion. However, his eyes provided no light and no sparkle, nothing that compared to the spark of angry the first time he glazed at them.

Nonetheless, the preacher decided to wipe his cheeks and eyes with the rough fabric of his sleeve. Dark wet patches now stain his shirt, but his skin and eyelashes were clear without a single droplet. Getting up from the sitting position to stand, he stretches his arms out and his back arches a little until it pops as he yawns tenderly similar that of a kitten's. He then strolls up to the petite streams that still bubbles in gently pops around rigid rocks. He kneels down, taking a peek at his hazy reflection of chocolate curls and hazels that watches and mocks his blinking. He cups his hands, immersing them into the cool liquid, then elevating it up as water began to splash back into the stream as it drips behind the slits of his fingers. Rapidly, he splashes himself in the face with the water and repeating the action to clean his eyes and cheeks with a refreshing feeling. As the water makes his skin cool and moist, droplet find their way into his strands, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Subsequently, the other sleeve wiped the wet off until the white of his eyes were clear as pearls, his cheeks a sweet rosy shade, and his olive skin now dry.

As he strolls out of the woods and head to his home, tries to avoid spots that many people are. This took him extra time to come home, but he felt safer that if he avoided many individuals because he is afraid that he was wearing his heart on his sleeve that anyone judges the presence of it. Yet, some of the folk barely noticed as they trolled pass him, which conveyed him a sense of relief until the following person came walking closer.

However, before he steps to his front door, he could see the backyard, where his vivid plants still stand as they bask in the sun. Yet, the Chrysanthemums of red, white, yellow mocked him so, also the other that meant that feeling that cursed him accordingly. Stomping them as a imagine was produced in his mind that gives him a sore of pleasure that can mack his pain, yet he knew he would find himself in more troubling emotion if he were to come to that. An enjoyable sight damaged by his own feet he stood on, that he could see through his kitchen and bedroom every day, would make the sanitary of his home colder and soulless simpler to abandoned sprints.

He only sighs and goes to open the door, that made a creaking sound as it swings wides and again when Franklin secures it. He sighs as he inspects his ordinary home that barely had any color, just dark wood cover his walls and floors along with furniture that of contrasting hues of dull browns, black, and whites. The only color in the living room was a bookshelf of a caramel color that stored books that had multiple covers of pigments and also held a blue vase that showcased yellow pedals of gloriosa daisies.

He just walked passed towards his bedroom, not interested in eating or reading or anything. He opens the door, getting blinded by the sunlight coming in. So he swiftly covered them with black drapes, that were pushed to the side earlier, but the room now was dark as night with only slits of natural light coming in, but shutting out the outside world as much as possible. He then fell to his cot, messing up the blanket with wrinkles and thrusting his face into his pillow. Nonetheless, he could not help himself as tears slipped again as he grips the stained pillow, being an anchor that he is holding on to. Really the only thing he can hold on to right now.

Yet, he lifts his head that had his face wet and his curls all pointing in different directions and removed the rosary from his neck. His finger runs along the smooth sanded wooden beads as he tucks them into position between his two hands. He closes his eyes to a dark place, letting two tears run down, and with a hushed whisper, he prays. Asking for forgiveness first, then seeking why the lord must arrange this to him with sobs in his throat, cracking his voice. He invites explanations in the name of his son Christ, that when he said Amen, there was only silence of course.

Nonetheless, his life was very blurry, and all he could is entwine into the warm blankets and bedsheets, then fall deep into sleep with stained cheeks and a shattered organ beating within chest.


End file.
